


Copy That

by maybemalapert (laconicisms)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Awkward Sex, Big Bang Challenge, Curses, Light D/s, M/M, Sensory Deprivation, Shapeshifting, What-If, additional explanations can be found in the notes, semi-selfcest, sex in front of a mirror, sex on a boat, sex on a ship, this started out as gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-15
Updated: 2012-12-15
Packaged: 2017-11-21 05:35:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 18,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/594032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laconicisms/pseuds/maybemalapert
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Afghanistan changes a man, some more than others. In which John develops the ability to transform into any animate being he sees. [Includes: caracal!John, guinea pig!John, fly!John, mouse!John, Sherlock!John, and John!John.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Additional Warnings: Remember when Sherlock drugged John in Hound? More along that theme. Also, (light) bondage, gags and sensory deprivation, and hints of D/s dynamic (predominantly of the Sherlock/John variety). Semi-selfcest (i.e. Sherlock/Sherlock!John). Sex in front of a mirror. Sex in a boat. Sex on a ship. ~~This was supposed to be more gen than not. How did this happen, how.~~ Also, a scene gone wrong and awkward. 
> 
>  Goes AU after Hound. (Well, actually, it goes AU one month before John is sent home.)
> 
> Many thanks go to  
> \- morganoconner and miyatenaka for word warring with me until all our fingers (and wrists and arms) were hurting,  
> \- a8c_sock for cheerleading and britpicking _like a boss_ ,  
> \- radioprotector2 and kalliel for the Russian phrases.  
> \- anonbach for mysterious betaing and boats. ♥
> 
> Thank you, everyone who's put up with me whining whether it was about the fic not ending (no why, _why_ ) or John being a terrible fly even though he's not at fault. 
> 
> This fic serves as a fill for the _homebrewbingo square_ "body modification".
> 
> Last, but definitely not least, ALL MY LOVE to chosenfire28 for your kind words about the fic and the art OMG. :DDDDD *squishes* Please leave a comment [here](http://chosenfire28.livejournal.com/273543.html) for her. ♥

 

 

  
"Copy that down," Sherlock says as if John were his secretary, and turns away.  
  
 _Shit_ , John thinks. And then:  _fuck_. And then he doesn't think for a while because his body is busy turning itself inside out, while Sherlock stares at him. Stares and stares, and that isn't the look of Sherlock observing keenly; it's the look of someone absolutely bewildered by what is happening right in front of his eyes. (John sympathises. Oh does he ever.)  
  
This, right now, John and Sherlock in Baker Street, evening, curtains drawn, is perhaps not the worst time. That doesn't make the situation any more bearable, though, all things considered.  


* * *

  
He is lying prone on the ground, sand and tiny stones biting into his cheek and palms, stinging where they’d rubbed his skin open, but John barely notices — he is focussed entirely on his fingers and the strange hair (fur) they'd grown. Their shortness. Their lack of any characteristic that could be deemed human.  
  
John whimpers involuntarily, and the sound that emerges is as animal as the rest of him. He does not want to look, does not, but he turns his head because John is nothing if not brave (foolhardy) or that's what he believed until the first mine exploded all but next to him, which was terrifying (exciting).  
  
He looks, and mewls again because where he expected his back (sunburnt, wiry, in camouflage gear), there's only a furred sand-coloured body, feline tail (fuck,  _tail_ ) bristling.  
  
There is nothing left of John Watson.  


* * *

  
The first thing he does is to try and forget it ever happened. Difficult because there are questions, asked by his superiors, and he doesn't have an answer for where he's been and what he's been doing — an answer that makes sense and doesn't get him sent home on account of mental instability, at least.  
  
He lies — what else could he do? (Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. I got lost.) — and is consequently known as John-couldn't-find-his-own-arse-with-a-map-Watson. It's fine; it's all fine as long as no one suspects he was running around Helmand province thinking he was a caracal.  
  
It's all bloody fine until it happens again, and this time he knows it must be real and not heatstroke, drugs, or a psychotic break because there's no way in hell that Bill would go along with it, would treat him like a ferret if John didn't appear to  _be_  one. (Bill hadn't seen the transformation, had left the tent a bare second before the seizing really got started and John could no longer suppress his groans and whimpers.)  
  
He returns to his own form much more quickly this time, though. Human contact, or maybe there's a trigger for this, too, like there (probably) is for the change. (He rather suspects he knows what it is.) It makes sense as much as anything in this makes sense. But he can't figure out what that trigger is, and figuring it out would be of little help anyway because John suspects that it's a word and he can't produce human sound with animal lips and vocal chords.  
  
He needs to put a stop to this somehow.

 

* * *

  
The third time he turns into Bill, and it's Owen asking him where  _John_  is that gives him the solution to his previous question — and has him racing towards a nearby private spot to finish the change in peace. It's a little time later that John realises how lucky he is that his name is so common that even soldiers he barely knows (only overhears while crouching near them in the shape of a caracal) will drop it in idle conversation. Lucky, lucky John. (How utterly unamusing.)  


* * *

  
The fourth time gets him sent home.  


* * *

  
  
He has just finished changing, fingers longer, hair dark and wavy, when Sherlock utters his name in a tone so completely stunned that John would laugh were he not still reeling, pain keeping him immobile.  
  
John hates him a little. One transformation is excruciating and taxing, two right after one another make him want to faint with pain and exhaustion.  
  
The only bright side is that he didn't turn into a different species; that would have been beyond endurable.  
  
"Shut up," he rasps. "For god's sake, don't speak." And to his utter surprise, Sherlock actually listens to him.  
  
And then helps him to the sofa, to lie down.  
  
John wants nothing more than to sleep for the next fifteen or sixteen hours; only he can't because while Sherlock isn't speaking he's boring holes into John's skull with his eyes, and John can hear the questions piling up inside him, barely kept in by tightly pressed lips. John will either have to permit him to speak or watch an explosion.  
  
"Give me a piece of paper."  
  
It's surreal, really. John on the sofa, while Sherlock jumps to fetch pen and paper. Neither of which is far from hand; John could probably reach if he could convince his body to move, just slightly, and stretch his arm.  
  
Sherlock thrusts the items at him, almost vibrating with tension as John takes them from his hand.  
  
"Whatever you do," John says, writing words with shaking fingers, "Do  _not_  say these words." He holds up the paper. Sherlock squints at the writing and curls his lip. John huffs quietly. His handwriting is barely legible at the best of times admittedly, but allowances should be made considering his current state. He frowns at Sherlock, who ignores him. Of course.  
  
"Those were the words I said to you before...before." Sherlock raises his hand, gesturing at nothing and everything.  
  
It's not a questions. It's Sherlock stating the obvious. John replies anyway. "Yeah."  
  
"They trigger—"  
  
"Yeah," John says again.  
  
Sherlock presses his hands together underneath his chin and turns his head slightly, gaze travelling towards his violin, but he doesn't move from the spot, standing over John like a hawk whose eyes have seized upon some hapless mouse.  
  
"Your name reverses it."  
  
John doesn't answer, doesn't need to. "I'm surprised you accept that it has happened," he says instead. 'Especially after Baskerville and the hound that was nothing more than a figment of an addled imagination,' he doesn't say.  
  
Sherlock picks up on it anyway. "I had considered it." He hesitates."I don't think you'd play along if someone had drugged me."  
  
And John himself would not have drugged Sherlock, of course. John isn't the type to make his flatmate go loopy and consider triggering his transformation right in the middle of a secret experimental lab where he'd end up in a cage himself for the rest of his short and miserable life.  
  
Sherlock grimaces, and John hopes it's because some of his thoughts have been clear on his face and not because Sherlock is getting impatient because John has, so far, not given him any kind of explanation for this impossibility.  
  
"I don't know why or how," he says, and hides a smile when Sherlock blinks before he replies, switching mental tracks.  
  
"You must have some idea."  
  
"Nope."  
  
Sherlock frowns at John as if he suspects that John is being deliberately obtuse just to spite him. "How long?" he demands finally.  
  
"About one month before I got shot," John says with a sigh. His eyes are drifting close on their own accord. "I was on patrol. Got separated." He's slurring his words by now, tongue moving sluggishly, and finally slips into sleep.  
  
If Sherlock tries to wake him, John doesn't notice.  


* * *

  
  
"Ten hours, John."  
  
Sherlock is sulking. It's the first thing John notices upon waking. Well, no. The first thing he notices is that Sherlock is sitting in his armchair by the window, the light is shining brightly outside, and Sherlock is plucking at the strings of his violin while wearing an expression that could best be described as thunderous. So, actually, yes. It is the first thing John notices.  
  
"Your fault," John rasps. He needs water — and the loo — rather desperately.  
  
"You got separated. Then what?"  
  
John struggles into an upright position, swinging his legs over the side of the sofa and standing cautiously. He feels woozy, dehydrated. "Bath. Breakfast. Then answers."  
  
The violin gives a god almighty screech. John ignores it and shuffles towards the bathroom.  
  
He didn't expect to be able to have breakfast in peace, of course. John has barely started the electric kettle when Sherlock stalks into the kitchen, trying to intimidate John into speaking by towering over him. Now that John doesn't feel quite as much like shit any longer, he's starting to find this funny; actually, he's downright enjoying himself. He waits for the water to boil before reaching for the cardboard box of PG Tips, fishing out a teabag and depositing it in his old RAMC mug. The water gurgles pleasantly as he pours it over the bag.  
  
"John."  
  
He adds milk before carrying the mug over to the table. "Fetch me a plate and the jam, will you, Sherlock."  
  
It's a miracle that neither the jar of jam nor the plate crack as Sherlock thumps them down on the table with more force than anyone would consider necessary. The bread, a knife (a little too close to his fingers for comfort, but thrilling), and butter follows before Sherlock lets himself fall into the chair opposite, arms crossed and lips pursed.  
  
John takes a sip of his tea, partly for effect, partly because he's just that thirsty. It's too hot and he burns his lips and tongue.  
  
"I got separated near the Helmand River. There was an ambush and—," he stops. Not important. "Never mind. I don't know what happened. One moment, I was running through the Afghan hinterlands, dodging bullets and talking on the transmitter; the next, I was lying flat on my stomach, shaking from cramps and god I don't even know what and thinking I was about to die."  
  
He reaches for butter, knife and bread, frowning to himself. "I don't know what set it off. I tried to find out, but I got shot before I had the chance to retrace my steps."  
  
"Unsatisfactory."  
  
"I am aware," John snaps. "Christ, don't you think I haven't been trying to figure this out? There's nothing that's happened prior to it that would explain what's going on or why it's happening. It's like my body suddenly decided it wanted to star in Doctor Who!"  
  
"What's happening is perfectly clear, John, albeit scientifically impossible." Sherlock continues before John can do more than open his mouth. He is pointing the knife at Sherlock's face, he notices. "The  _reason_  I will be able to figure out once you've given me enough data to work with." There is a light shining in his eyes as he's leaning forward towards John, ignoring the knife entirely.  
  
And suddenly John deflates because that is Sherlock in a nutshell. Confident in his own abilities even in the face of the impossible. So excited about puzzles that John is drawn along, half submerged in the wave that is Sherlock's glee.  
  
He should feel annoyed, but what is stirring inside his breast is the same excitement — and the surety that, of course, Sherlock will be able to solve this.  
  
He's solved everything else so far.  


* * *

  
Sherlock wants to go to Afghanistan. It makes sense, but  _Sherlock_  wants to go to  _Afghanistan_.  
  
"No," John says. "Seriously, no."  


* * *

  
John agrees to experiments, which is the second best course of action, he knows, but it doesn't mean he has to like it. Third best is research, which Sherlock is not doing yet because it would involve asking Mycroft for access to secret government research. It must be science, Sherlock has decided. It could not possibly be magic. John thinks of bunnies that glow in the dark and privately concludes that that's still a far cry from shape changing, but he's a medical man, a man of science and if there is a scientific explanation he'll grab it with both hands because otherwise...otherwise his brain might just explode. Or Sherlock's. And no one wants that.  
  
In any case, John agrees to suffer through Sherlock running several tests. It doesn't mean he'll acquiesce to  _all_  of them.  
  
"Are you  _trying_  to kill me? I'm just asking because there are about three billion better and faster ways."  
  
"Don't be absurd."  
  
Sherlock could, John knows, entirely ignore his wishes and have him transform at any time that Sherlock pleases, into almost anything that Sherlock pleases. It makes his gut twist a little with excitement and a minuscule amount of fear, but not more than that because Sherlock wouldn't do that.  
  
He thinks.  
  
He's almost certain — certain enough to share the trigger phrase with him, though Sherlock would have figured it out sooner rather than later anyway.  
  
"I need at least an hour between transformations. Okay, okay, alright. Between two successive transformation provided I stay human." He crosses his arms, glaring at Sherlock from his armchair.  
  
"Animal," Sherlock begins, stops, clears his throat. "Half an hour between single ones, animal or human."  
  
"Forty-five minutes between animal ones, and when I'm calling a break, I'm getting a break for however long I deem necessary."  
  
A huff. "Fine. Moving on then," Sherlock grumbles and shoves a picture of Prince Charles underneath John's nose. "Copy that."  
  
When John has finished changing, Sherlock steeples his fingers and asks, "I keep wondering if you're taking on certain... attributes when—"  
  
"No," John replies tiredly, picking at the sleeves of the exact replica of Sherlock's dressing gown. "I'm not suddenly as smart as you."  
  
"Pity." Sherlock's face is all arrogant beauty.  
  
John bites his tongue and rises. "I'll be in the kitchen, making tea." He strides off, taking some twisted delight in the fact that he's doing it as efficiently and dramatically as Sherlock.  


* * *

  
  
"Really, John. Afghanistan."  
  
"Really, Sherlock. No."  


* * *

  
  
"It would help," Sherlock says some five days after the Incident, "if you were more forthcoming about what exactly was happening."  
  
"It would not," John replies, because it bears no importance to the matter at hand and, more importantly, because John would be forced to remember and he doesn't want that.  
  
"You're afraid."  
  
"Sherlock, it's a war there." And Sherlock looks at him with an expression that says 'I can't believe you just tried to prevaricate with  _that_  as your flimsy excuse.'  
  
John tries to put him off because while, he's afraid, It's more than that. He feels ashamed because he was being so fucking stupid. Of course, Sherlock is by far the most stubborn person John knows.  


* * *

  
  
It's beautiful, so breathtakingly beautiful that for a moment John forgets everything around him. Later, he will rail at himself for losing concentration, for not paying attention for however long he was staring at the goddamn  _landscape_. Later, when bullets are flying around his ears, and his unit is suddenly  _over there_ , far, far from easy reach, and John runs and runs forwards, away, towards the rainbow, the light drizzle dogging his every step, and the sun blinding him, and he stumbles, goes down, rolls. Blinks, because the rainbow is now behind him when he could have sworn it was right in front, but the bullets are still coming from that direction, so John scrambles up again, dives behind a rock, startled when he almost drops on top of a caracal that's crouching next to him, frozen in terror. For a moment they stare at each other. Then the cat takes flight.  
  
"Will cover you. Regroup at last checkpoint," a tinny voice says in his ear, and then he's waiting for an explosion from a hand grenade, the signal to move, move, move.  
  
"Copy that," John gasps out. A bullet ricochets off the rock, and John's body spasms, and fuck,  _fuck_. His head turns slowly, downward, to check for the entry wound, but there's nothing there, no blood that John can see, and then his body starts to seize in earnest, and John's too busy gritting his teeth against the pain to find out where it's coming from.  


* * *

  
  
John does his best to suppress the urge to squirm, and is more than just a little grateful when Sherlock doesn't remark on his stupidity. (Then again, it really doesn't need to be stated out loud.)  
  
Instead, Sherlock frowns and focuses on something else, namely that, "this is incredibly unhelpful. Aside from your fall, there's nothing strange about this." He flows out of his chair in one smooth motion, pacing towards the kitchen and back again. "Could it be a gas? No, something on the ground that seeped into your skin. Did you notice something different about your hands?"  
  
"You mean other than the  _fur_?"  
  
"Discoloration? Itchiness? A peculiar scent?"  
  
"I spent the next two days as an Afghan cat, Sherlock. If there ever was such a thing, it was gone by the time I turned ba— what are you doing?" Sherlock grabs John's hand (for a second something hot is running down John's body, pooling at the base of his cock) and pours the vial he has just snatched from the living room table over it. It stings - and stinks.  
  
"John."  
  
Fuck.  
  
"Copy that."  
  
John is getting really sick of turning into Sherlock. Next time, he swears, he'll look at something different first. Maybe he could get a pet rat or something. On second thought,  _no_.  
  
"Gone." Sherlock is glaring at John's elongated fingers as if they have personally offended him. They lack the yellow stain they'd born just a minute before.  
  
"I could have told you that," John grumbles. "Exact replica, Sherlock." He ignores Sherlock's scowl and gets up to wash his hands. Even if the stain is gone, his mind insists it must be there.  
  
In the bathroom, John takes a moment to finally, really look at himself. (He's never done that before. At first, he didn't have the opportunity and then he just didn't think to do it.) The face that stares back at him from the mirror is Sherlock's, of course, but the expression is all John's. Sherlock never looks like that. John leans forward, gaze travelling over his (Sherlock's) eyebrows, his (Sherlock's) nose, (he's skipping the eyes; he doesn't know why but looking at himself with another person's eyes makes him beyond uncomfortable and he wasn't really calm about this to begin with), his (Sherlock's) cheekbones, his (Sherlock's) mouth. His attention lingers on his (Sherlock's) lips for a while before John notices what he's doing. He leans back. One of Sherlock's dark curls slips and obscures the vision in one eye. He brushes it away, runs his hand through the hair, feeling its texture, its warmth.  
  
He's been in the bathroom too long.  
  
He's also been touching Sherlock's body even if it isn't exactly Sherlock's body. Embarrassment hits. Grows worse as his (not entirely, but in this case very much) undisciplined mind begins to catalogue what else he can feel and what he can feel this things  _with_. It doesn't help that Sherlock's pyjama bottoms are of a very fine make and feel deliciously smooth against his (Sherlock's, good god) cock.  
  
John turns on the taps and throws a handful of cold water in his face. He tries to think of his first ever autopsy (no good, that makes him think of Sherlock), then the time, he had to crawl through a gutter because  _this is how the murderer got away, John_.  
  
He dries off his face with a towel, takes a deep breath and returns to the sitting room. Sherlock is holding a knife in one hand and a swab in another. It's the former that interests John most. "It would be important to see if you also replicated wounds."  
  
"I probably will," John mutters, shifting his weight from one leg to the other. He plucks the (still wrapped up, hopefully sterile) swab from Sherlock's hand and sticking it in his mouth. He hands it back to Sherlock. "Fifteen minutes more."  
  
"Two successive changes."  
  
"Ten hours of sleep."  
  
Sherlock glares at him as if John is being difficult on purpose. "Fine, one change. And another later on."  
  
John nods.  
  
If Sherlock notices John's flushed face (of course, he notices, John thinks, he must), he doesn't let on.

 

 

* * *

  
John's just stepping out of the shower, when the door bangs open and Sherlock waltzes in with a blue highlighter and a determined expression on his face. John reaches for the towel with all the coolness of a man so used to lack of privacy that even his quirky flatmate cannot faze him.  
  
"Look at yourself in the mirror," Sherlock demands, blithely ignoring John's state of undress.  
  
John unfolds the towel and begins to dry himself quickly and efficiently while Sherlock shifts from one foot to the other. He wraps it around his hips, and only then raises his eyes to the mirror, meeting his own gaze. "Okay, I'm looking. Now what?"  
  
"Make sure this is the last thing you see. Now close your eyes."  
  
"Couldn't you have waited five minutes," he grumbles but does obey. Cut off from his sight as he is, Sherlock's and his own breathing are suddenly quite loud in the small room. As are Sherlock's footsteps that indicate that he's coming closer. A moment later, John feels Sherlock's warm body all but plastered to his side. There's the  _plopping_  sound of a highlighter's cap being pulled off before Sherlock presses the tip of the pen against the skin of John's chest. A hand on his shoulder blade keeps him from flinching away as Sherlock begins to draw something on him, the felt tip tickles and John is glad for the hand on his back that stays his involuntary flinch even as he's cursing it and the pen and Sherlock's bloody breathing and his eau-de-cologne and  _everything else_  that has his dick suddenly stir to life.  
  
Then Sherlock's hand and the highlighter are gone, and Sherlock is saying, "copy that."  
John's expecting the sudden lurch of course; what he's not prepared for is the brief itch on the right side of his chest and the lack of anything else. He waits a few more second, but no. There's nothing.  
  
"As I thought."  
  
"As you thought what?" John asks, finally opening his eyes.  
  
Sherlock shakes his head. "Are you recovered enough to change back immediately?"  
  
"I guess?" He does feel fine. John's gaze strays to his chest, noting the lack of coloured lines — which immediately begin to morph into existence when Sherlock says his name. (It tickles again.)  
  
"Obviously," Sherlock murmurs to himself, turning on his heel and leaving John standing in the bathroom with an oversized bee drawn on his chest.  
  
Right.  


* * *

  
  
"It's still your DNA." They're in the lab at St. Barts. Molly is getting them a coffee. "Of course, that might be because you've changed back in the meantime, though I don't see how your DNA sample would have known that."  
  
John knows what's coming next, so he speaks up before Sherlock asks. "And whose form should I stay in then for the next two days?"  
  
"Something relatively small."  
  
"I'm sorry," John says, because he can't have heard that right.  
  
"John, remaining a person," Sherlock states with the conviction of a man who believes himself to be infallible, "is too fraught with danger." He rattles off his arguments, all logical, all making sense, and by the end John should agree.  
  
John does not want to agree because John does not want to spend two days as an animal. Been there, done that. Didn't enjoy it for a moment.  
  
"Irrational," Sherlock proclaims when John tells him that there is just no way he'll agree to that.  
  
"Fuck you," John replies just as Molly returns, balancing three paper cups of coffee. Sherlock gives him a look that John interprets, quite rightfully, as 'this isn't finished'.  
  
"I don't know how you drink yours, John. I hope black is alright?" Molly smiles at him as he takes one of the cups. She deposits another one next to Sherlock's hand where it rests on a desk (Molly's. John can tell by the pictures of her cat.). Sherlock ignores her.  
  
"And if my brother visits?"  
  
Of course. Mycroft would notice if something's off. Then there's the CCTV, and... damn him. "Fine," John says. "Fucking fine. Okay."  


* * *

  
  
Bullets flying, people shouting, screaming, screaming for help, in pain, and John smack in the middle, hands around Davis (barely conscious), dragging him to safety (dead man walking, probably won't make it, but John has to try). And then some fucker shouts, "copy that" and suddenly John is trying to recall what he's been looking at last, and oh,  _oh_  that's not good.  
  
The cramps start. John screams, "John!" at the top of his voice, hoping to hear himself over the din, hoping this is, in fact, the right phrase (it is but he wasn't entirely certain at that point), hoping it will stop the transformation (it doesn't). He changes, hair darker, eyes and skin, too. Gone is his uniform, and everything else that marks him as a doctor, a soldier, a British citizen.  
  
Someone on his own side of this war.  
  
Instead he's looking down at the body of an Afghan man (around fifty years of age if he's any judge), who's bleeding horrifically from an arterial wound in his thigh (the pain of it is not immediate; it waits for the dawning horror to settle first; when it comes, though, it hurts as much as such a wound should). There's a groan; someone's saying, "fuck," and John thinks it must be him, but then there's the sound of movement and at the edge of his vision he can see a gun aimed at him, held by Davis's hand.  
  
"Davis," John gasps, "it's me. John Watson."  
  
The bullet hits his left shoulder at the same moment that the cramping starts again. John loses consciousness, and doesn't wake until much later.  


* * *

  
  
Unbelievable. No, not unbelievable. Simply typically Sherlock.  
  
'When I said  _fine_ , that wasn't meant to imply that I wanted to be turned into a bleeding guinea pig,' John bellows, or tries to bellow. What emerges from between his overly large teeth are a series of shrill whistles instead. 'Why a guinea pig? A dog would have been fine. A dog would have been great.' No, no. On second thought, not. Not least because that only brings up memories of Moriarty taunting him, but also because, John realises, it would mean that Sherlock would have to take him out for walkies.  
  
A hawk then. Or a cat. He's experienced in being a cat. Something that isn't kept in a  _cage_.  
  
"It's only for two days," Sherlock says, carrying John's cage up to John's room. From down below John can hear the —  _other_  — guinea pig trilling; the one that Sherlock had shoved in his face.  
  
'Two days I'm spending as a ridiculous rodent! In a cage. A cage, Sherlock!'  
  
"I know you don't think the cage is necessary, but it really is. And I can't keep a larger animal around here; someone would notice." Sherlock puts him down on the bed. "This way no one steps on you, and nothing will accidentally fall on you."  
  
Sherlock turns, heading towards the stairs. "You'll be fine, you'll see," he murmurs before closing the door behind him.  
  
'I will not!' John rages, grabbing a (tiny) fistful of hay or straw or whatever with his front paw and throwing it at the bars of his cage. It never hits, floating down gently halfway towards its goal. He's seething; anger is exhausting however, and, John decides once he has calmed a little, far better spent doing something constructive, like checking if the cage is John-proof. (Likely, this is Sherlock. Still.)  
  
When a thorough investigation of the premises leads him to conclude that it is, indeed, John-proof, John sets out to enact plan B: establish communication. He eyes the contents of the cage, noting the guinea pig food in the corner. Nothing more useful presents itself. It should be enough.  
  
When Sherlock returns what must be two hours later (John does not have access to his watch, of course, and he can't see his alarm clock from this angle), John has used the time and available resources to spell LET ME OUT. It's short and should get his point across pretty well. (He's rearranged the message several times. Spelling U FUCKING PRICK was, admittedly, satisfying but not really  _helpful_.  
  
"It is safer, really," Sherlock mutters, sounding put-upon as if all this is a great big inconvenience Sherlock suffers  _for John_.  
  
John whistles at him, and Sherlock crosses his arms. If John didn't know better, he'd say Sherlock were radiating concern for him. (He knows better; actually, what he knows is that Sherlock really does worry about him and, in his twisted, terrible brain, this all probably makes a great deal of sense. John does know this. It doesn't mean that he can't be furious with him.) John turns back to his food. He's just started on the second word ('incompetent'; the first one was 'not') when Sherlock closes his eyes and sighs.  
  
"Oh, fine."  
  
The good thing about being a guinea pig, John reflects, is that Sherlock has a hard time reading his body language and is thus entirely unprepared and unsuspecting when, upon opening the door of the cage, John buries his ginormous teeth in Sherlock's right index finger.  
  
The bad thing about being a guinea pig is that he's fucking small and that if Sherlock hadn't reacted as competently as he had, John might have killed himself with this stunt because Sherlock naturally jerks his hand back while John is still clinging to him. Sherlock stops the motion as his hand reached the edge of the bed for which John is incredibly grateful because a second later he loses his grip and drops, gently, on top of the bed (and not the floor).  
  
The whole thing rather proves Sherlock's point (though this actually wouldn't have happened if John hadn't been in a cage in the first place), but Sherlock doesn't say so. Eyes hard and expression grim, he reaches for John with his left hand and picks him up.  
  
They move downstairs (Sherlock moves, John is moved) and Sherlock settles him on the sofa, then vanishes out of sight. John can hear him though, opening a cabinet (bathroom probably) and moving things around inside (searching for plaster, most likely). He looks around; the (other) guinea pig is gone, taken back to wherever Sherlock got it from in the first place, most likely. The rest of Baker Street looks the same as ever, albeit  _bigger_. John scuttles towards the edge of the sofa. The ground is a bit far from where he is; no way he's getting off the sofa without breaking something. He wheezes, frustrated.  
  
Movement to his left catches his eye and he turns his head to see Sherlock pass him by, heading straight for his laptop. He picks it up and settles next to John on the sofa. There's silence for a while as Sherlock boots up his laptop and starts to (John moves closer, sitting up on his hindlegs, frontpaws on Sherlock's leg for balance) browse the local news section of the London Times. John tries to read along, but Sherlock mostly clicks through too fast for John to read more than the first two sentences. Also, the light of the screen is giving him a headache. He withdraws his paws to lie on his stomach. The past several hours have tired him out and he begins to slip into the kind of stupor he usually reaches only after 30 hours awake and finally succumbs to sleep.  
  
He thinks, though he's not entirely certain, that he feels Sherlock's fingers stroking along his fur before sleep claims him entirely.  


* * *

  
  
Two days after John's unfortunate transformation into a pet rodent find John and Sherlock sulking (Sherlock is sulking; John is making his displeasure — now reduced to merely mild irritation as opposed to fuming rage - known by ignoring Sherlock's existence) in the kitchen and the living room respectively. Sherlock is also picking at the plaster wrapped around his finger.  
  
Into this vaguely tense atmosphere Lestrade bursts with a case about smuggling that John suspects (and Sherlock knows) will lead them deep into the territory of the Russian mafia (John suspected mafia; Sherlock deduced they were Russian).  
  
The case is dull; the criminals are dull. The fact that Lestrade thinks they're bribing someone in the Yard is also dull, but explains why he came to Sherlock.  
  
"I need to know," Lestrade says. "I need to know who I can trust." Aside from Sherlock, of course. It's the implied trust, John thinks, that has Sherlock agreeing to work on the case. Because so few people actually, really trust that brilliant madman. (And despite what has happened, John still does. The realisation has the muscles in his shoulders untense completely, at last.)  
  
He waits for Lestrade to leave before turning to Sherlock, holds his breath for a moment before saying. "You're my best friend, but if you ever lock me in a cage again, I will punch you." Then he picks up Sherlock's scarf, offers it to him like an olive branch.  
  
After a moment, Sherlock nods his head and takes the scarf from his hand. Their fingers brush slightly, and suddenly all but the bare minimum of breathable air leaves the room. Sherlock looks John in the eyes.  
  
"Of course," he replies, and John thinks it sounds almost like Sherlock is just the tiniest bit short of breath as well.  


* * *

  
  
The office (one office of many, John suspects) is on a ship, one of those big ones that transport cargo all over the world in giant containers. Sherlock doesn't believe he'll find out who the mole is by going through the papers in a Mafia owned office; no, Sherlock knows who the mole is already (three days of covert surveillance by the homeless network and Sherlock himself).  
  
What has John and Sherlock skulking around at the harbour is the whisper of a name ( _the_  name) that serves as a Pavlovian trigger phrase for Sherlock. (John wonders idly if Sherlock could be conditioned to react to a different stimulus with the same amount of excited anticipation, and what kind of stimulus that should be, and then he stops thinking because this is not a place he wants his mind to go when a, Sherlock is nearby and b, John started out thinking about bloody  _Moriarty_.)  
  
Someone starts to cough close by. Someone else utters a string of Russian words, and John silently swears because there's no hiding place that they could reach easily without being seen and he can hear footsteps now, too.  
  
Then suddenly Sherlock is pressing him against a nearby container as if that would make the criminals overlook them. John opens his mouth to say something, but doesn't get the chance because Sherlock's mouth is suddenly on his and they're kissing. It is, it is everything that John ever wanted and more, and he melts into it before his brain catches up. Stupid. Cover. Not real. (Enjoy it while it lasts.)  
  
The criminals pass by them, ignoring them both.  
  
"I believe," Sherlock says, once they're out of earshot, "that I get to take some liberties with your body considering the kind of liberties you wanted to take with mine."  
  
John blinks at him (oh god, real? Real!), then splutters as he realises what Sherlock just said. "I didn't— I wasn't—" He gives up because  _he wanted_ , and Sherlock knows this as he knows everything, including that John wants to kiss him some more now that he isn't so surprised at what's happening (or slightly less surprised because he still can't quite believe that Sherlock wanted to take liberties with John's body.)  
  
Sherlock's lips brush up against his again, and John melts into him, into this kiss. Sherlock teases him with his tongue, licking at his bottom lip before drawing it into his mouth, teeth grazing, biting down gently before withdrawing. "I should draw blood. It would only be fair."  
  
"It would," John replies, "but then I'd have to lock you into a guinea pig cage and you're too big to fit."  
  
"Too bad then," Sherlock murmurs before drawing back. John lets go of him reluctantly. They're here for a reason.  
  
"Right." He clears his throat and turns towards the ship. "Let's see what we can find."  


* * *

  
It takes Sherlock approximately five and a half days after they've kissed (and 18 hours after they've jerked each other off for the second time) to suggest that John change into Sherlock. (John almost comes from the thought alone.) Of course, before that happens, they almost die.  


* * *

  
John shuffles sideways, mindful of nearly invisible objects in the dark. He lets his hands glide over the walls of the cargo container they're in (up down, up down), hoping against hope, there's something...something that he could...  
  
...he doesn't know. Use as a weapon? Use to free them? Use to pry open the door?  
  
A sigh from the back. "John." Useless; it's useless, Sherlock thinks, and John agrees with him. He slouches back to where Sherlock is sitting near the back and settles down next to him.  
  
"When."  
  
"Yes."  
  
When they open the door again ( _if_  they do and John's not certain about that because it would be just as easy to let them die of dehydration), John and Sherlock will have to take their chance against several heavily armed men who had managed to overwhelm them once already. John tongues at his lip again. It's still throbbing, but the bleeding has stopped.  
  
"How long."  
  
"They'll want to be far enough from the coast not to attract attention. Unless."  
  
Unless. Yeah. John closes his eyes, letting his head fall back to rest against the wall. The dark is stifling in its own way. John can't tell how much time has passed (his watch doesn't have a light — neither does Sherlock's — and his mobile is probably at the bottom of the North Sea). This makes him antsy for no reason that he can see. It's not like he won't be able to tell when the sun rises because the infinitesimal crack at the bottom of the container (where the door meets the floor) is just big enough, John thinks, to let in a tiny amount of light along with the draught and smell of the sea.  
  
"It's funny," John says after a while. "I always thought I'd die in a desert, but I've been in quite a lot of mortal danger near a body of water twice now."  
  
"Any preference?" Sherlock asks. There's an odd tone to his voice, which John struggles and fails to interpret.  
  
"Well, no," he replies. "Dead is dead. It's the company you're with that makes the difference. So." So, he actually does have a preference. He wonders if he'll be brave enough to say so.  
  
"Ah," Sherlock says, and it sounds like he's smiling. "I agree." And John thinks  _to hell with it_ , reaches for Sherlock's faces and kisses him. (Nose first because it's too fucking dark and John can't see, then mouth, and John's lip still troubles him but he ignores it.) Sherlock hums low in his throat.  
  
John doesn't draw back to say something terribly sappy and stupid like, 'if these are our last hours on earth, I want to spend them in your arms.' Or: 'if we die, I don't want to regret not having had sex with you.'  
  
That doesn't mean he doesn't  _feel_  that way, though.  
  
"I want," he breathes against Sherlock's lips and into his mouth, hands buried in Sherlock's hair, gripping it tight, so Sherlock cannot move away, "to take certain liberties with your body."  
  
"Granted," Sherlock replies. His hands tug at John's jacket, and John acquiesces to lowering his arms and letting Sherlock slide his jacket from his shoulders down to his elbows, rather ineffectively trapping his arms. Still, his arms were partially restricted. Not enough that he couldn't easily free himself. Just enough to make his mouth run dry because he was at Sherlock's mercy. (And how different this was from the guinea pig cage, and yet similar. His cock takes a rather large interest in the proceedings. 'I'm screwed," John realises. 'Utterly screwed. I like this.') "But I get to take them first," Sherlock concludes.  
  
John swallows, then nods, and then says, "yeah. Yeah." Because, of course, Sherlock can't see him nodding in the dark; his brain is too damn slow.  
  
Sherlock moves on to John's belt. The buckle clinks as he opens it. He begins to pull at the belt, and the pressure and the feeling of fabric slowly rubbing over fabric, pressing down on John's skin is lovely and, above all, hot. Sherlock takes his time, running the belt through the hoops one at a time, and John, John wants him to go faster and yet doesn't. Confusion settles over his mind like a thick woolen blanket.  
  
"Sherlock."  
  
The fourth hoop. (John thinks it's the fourth; god, does it matter?) He repeats Sherlock's name, as Sherlock finally pulls the belt free, and is hushed. "Do you really want our illustrious captors to hear you?" Crying out my name as I make you come, is left unsaid. John groans.  
  
"No."  
  
"Do you want help then?" Sherlock asks, leaving John momentarily confused - until he smells the sharp tang of leather, feels the roughened surface pressed against his lower lip, which is still smarting from the rough treatment it had received earlier; but the pain is turning into something new, something almost like pleasure. Oh, fuck.  
  
John hesitates only for a moment before he opens his mouth wider and tilts his head forward. He bites down on the belt, gagging himself willingly, and hears a sharp intake of breath, then a wheeze.  
  
John's bound, he's gagged, he might as well be blindfolded for all he can see in this dark container, and  _Sherlock_  is the one now breathing so harshly it wouldn't surprise John if the whole ship could hear him.  
  
"I estimate that we have four hours until dawn, and they won't want to let us out in the pitch dark." Sherlock pauses. "I plan to spend the time, all of it,  _well_."  
  
And that sounds like Sherlock wants to take even more. If removing his belt has already taken two minutes, at John's guess, then John wouldn't come for ages, and—.  
  
John doesn't get to finish the thought, because Sherlock is moving to open the button and zipper of his trousers. "Now what shall I do," he murmurs, leaning forward until his mouth is pressed against John's ear. "Shall I bring you off with my hand? I have quite nimble hands, as you know. I play the violin."  
  
Images of Sherlock playing, or even just plucking at the strings, flash through John's mind. Sherlock's fingers are long and graceful, he knows; very deft. Controlled. More than simply competent.  
  
"Or," Sherlock continues, "I could lower my head, lick at the tip of your cock with my tongue, tease with my lips, perhaps use my teeth a little?" John moans around the belt, eyes fluttering shut. "Yes, I thought you might appreciate that. Shall with go with it then?"  
  
It takes all of the last vestiges of John's control not to nod as if he were headbanging to a particularly fast tune. He moves his head once, cheek brushing down and up Sherlock's own.  
  
"Very well."  
  
John's being helpful (and a bit demanding) by lifting his hips to make it easier for Sherlock to pull down his trousers and boxer shorts. Sherlock does so at such a tremendously slow pace that by the time that John's arse meets with the cold of the container floor, his legs and arms and abdominal muscles are trembling from the strain of holding himself up.  
  
But neither the strain nor the iciness of the metal floor do anything to detract from the blazing heat that is his cock. If anything, they add to it, so that, when Sherlock's tongue does finally trail over the tip of his cock, John can't stop himself from giving a muffled shout because it was either that or coming  _right at that moment_. John freezes (as does Sherlock) and they wait with baited breath for the sound of sudden company.  
  
When, after about a minute of waiting, (the delay does not help to reduce his arousal either,) nothing has stirred, Sherlock's attention returns to John's cock.  
  
Specifically in the form of Sherlock's left hand, which is bloody icy (must have pressed it to the floor, some part of John's mind remarks), and that, finally, reins in John's rampant cock. His breathing stops, then evens out. His cock stands at half-mast or somewhere close to that. "Four hours, John."  
  
Oh. God.  
  
Sherlock's right hand grips John's hip, while the other — the cold one — moves to John's balls, pulling slightly at one, then the other. It's not bad, just a little uncomfortable and John wriggles but stills when that only serves to stretch the sensitive skin further because Sherlock isn't letting go.  
  
In fact, he seems to be tugging John towards him as if he'd grabbed hold of a leash. John's still trying to figure out if it's bad enough to spit out the belt and say, stop, when Sherlock's mouth descends on his cock and all thought of protest flees from his mind, and for a moment the only things he consciously registers are  _heat_  and  _wetness_  and oh god, are those Sherlock's teeth lightly grazing along his skin?  
  
John shudders, coming back to himself as Sherlock pulls up (his left hand is still on John's balls, but John doesn't mind the pain at all, right now; it feels  _good_ ), then promptly losing track of his thoughts again as Sherlock takes him into his mouth once more.  
  
John doesn't know for how long this game goes on. He's capable of thought, he's not, he is, he's not, but he does notice when Sherlock shifts his grip to John's cock (his other hand withdrawing from John's hip) and moves down so far on John that the tip of his cock hit the back of Sherlock's throat.  
  
John doesn't understand how he's not coming right now. It's like, this is, this is the best blow job he's ever received and he can't even say so at the moment because of his belt, in his mouth, and dear fucking god Sherlock just moved his throat muscles (swallowed? Swallowed.) and now  _John is coming_.  
  
The belt drops from his mouth. John sees whiteness in the dark, a brilliant shining white, even as Sherlock's mouth and throat and hand guide him through the aftershocks.  
  
"Good. God," he finally says when he his tongue unsticks itself from the inside of his mouth. Sherlock's answer can barely qualify as such. He slumps down next to John, sighing lazily, breath making John's fringe move and tickle. There's some rustling before Sherlock presses some kind of fabric (handkerchief?) against John's dick, cleaning him with sure strokes. John bites down on his lip and wriggles from the overload of sensation. When Sherlock is done, John shrugs back properly into his jacket and reaches down to put himself back to rights. Next to him, he hears more rustling.  
  
"Did you—?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Ah." A grin steals over John's face because Sherlock came from  _bringing John off_. Granted, he probably touched himself at one point, but still.  
  
"There's still rather a long amount of time until—"  
  
"Yes, but—"  
  
"Resting would be better, yes." Even if Sherlock wouldn't sleep, John was still human enough to do better with than without, and a three-hour period was better than nothing. (Always sleep in multiples of three, the army had taught him. It would make him less tired upon waking.)  
  
"I knew you wouldn't leave me hanging for four hours," John says.  
  
Sherlock snorts and doesn't dignify that assertion with any other kind of reply.  
  
"I wouldn't have lasted that long."  
  
"I could have made you."  
  
John stops short because his dick, which can't possibly be recuperated enough, is telling him that it is very interested in this line of conversation even though this whole scenario would be pure torture. He weighs the pros and cons, and finally thinks, fuck, to hell with it. "Wanna bet?"  
  
Yes, that  _is_  a challenge, and one that Sherlock, it seems, will gladly accept. "Certainly."


	2. Chapter 2

  
The light does little to illuminate the container. It's only the faintest of slivers along the floor, and if John hadn't been waiting for it, he probably wouldn't even have noticed. He stands silently, stretching his legs, warming up, in case he needs to move fast. Beside him, Sherlock is doing the same.  
  
John doesn't ask if Sherlock has a plan. For one thing, John's good at this shit. It's what he's been trained for. For another, there's really nothing they can do, but seize an opportunity when it presents itself and he trusts both himself and Sherlock to follow the other's lead.   
  
There's no noise outside yet; still his heart beats at a faster pace, adrenaline getting his body ready for combat now that he's moved from sitting and waiting to actually doing something. The worst part, the nerve-wrecking waiting in the dark for the blade to come down on their heads, that part is almost over. He breathes in deep, closes his eyes, settles. He can and will do this, whatever it is; he's ready.  
  
Then suddenly Sherlock grips his shoulder painfully hard. "John," he hisses. " _John_."  
  
"What?"  
  
"There's a fly."  
  
"Yeah, so— oh fuck. Fuck me." John opens his eyes, turning his gaze this way and that until he can see the fly properly. "You'll need to give me a bit beforehand, 20 minutes?" They are a bit pressed for time. "Otherwise I'll be useless."  
  
Sherlock squeezes his shoulder. Okay, then. John fixes his gaze on the fly. "Copy that."  
  
It feels like being sucker-punched. John has never before turned into something so tiny, and his body is telling him that it doesn't approve, not one bit. This was worse than the caracal, worse than the guinea pig. This was a freaking nightmare. John chokes, gritting his teeth against the pain and the rising vomit as he crashes to the ground. His teeth hurt, his eyes are on fire, his shoulders feels like something's ripping out of them. He writhes, panting, until he can't move anymore, the pain is just too great. It drowns out everything else.  
  
When it abates, later, later, so much later, he thinks that his estimation of twenty minutes was perhaps just a tiny bit optimistic. He's also already dreading the change back. Dear god. John shudders, then freezes when he notices a strange humming, whirring sound. The sound stops as well.  
  
Oh, of course, the wings. He can feel them now, on his back, about as long as his body. An experimental move of his — not shoulder blades, but... fly shoulder blades? John isn't up on insect anatomy. There hasn't been any need for that previously. Maybe he should remedy that as soon as possible. — an experimental move of his shoulder blades has them whirring back to live. He puts some more energy into it and is gratified to notice he's taking off from the floor, even though he's really more dangling in the air than flying. He's still exhausted and aching all over. Figuring out how to steer is hard (though he manages, somehow), figuring out where to go less so. He can still see the sliver of light before him, but it's brighter now and looks more like a hundred slivers, which yeah. He vaguely remembers some school biology lesson about insect eyes. Fly eyes. Vaguely.   
  
John lurches towards the light, flying in anything but a straight line. He almost smacks into the door, stops himself just in time, and more drops than lands, awkwardly, right in front of it. His legs (all six of them) are easier to manipulate into doing what he wants. He doesn't even have to think about it, but he gets distracted by the fact that every time he brushes against the door above or a crumb or anything his leg is telling him how that thing  _tastes_. Cold metal, as it turns out, leaves something to be desired taste-wise.   
  
Then he's on the ship proper and— Jesus, all these things,  _all these things._ John can't take them in. So many, and most of them showing up several times and fuck, his eyes won't close. (No eyelids, he notices, absently. He has no eyelids.)  
  
John's wings start moving involuntarily and before he knows he's up in the air, being blown this way and that by the wind. He tumbles, somersaults mid-air, is almost bashed against some kind of surface before he gets a hold of himself and his bloody wings. This time his attempt at a landing cannot even begin to qualify as such. He hits the ground, stumbling over his own legs, before standing shakily.   
  
Okay, this won't do. He needs a moment to reorientate himself, figure out where he's ended up — before that, figure out how to process what he's seeing, Jesus. John rubs his front legs over his eyes, his actual eyes (no eyelids), clearing them. Devotes a whole minute to centering himself, attention turned inward, before even trying to figure out his sight (which is awful. Even being drunk and seeing things double and triple has never been this bad. He can feel a headache coming on atop the pains and aches, and changing back can seriously not happen quickly enough.) or his position. (John-couldn't-find-his-own-arse-with-a-map-Watson makes a reappearance, though given a choice between a fly and a cat, he'll take the cat any day.)   
  
John turns this way and that, trying to figure out where the cargo container is. He  _thinks_  he recognises it somewhere off to his left (This makes sense; the wind is coming from his right.) and sets out towards it on foot, wary of braving the air again.   
  
Judging the distance, he estimates that it'll take him fifteen minutes all in all; he thinks, he hopes because the thought of Sherlock sitting in that container, calling his name and not getting an answer makes something twist inside his gut.  
  
By the time he's a quarter of the way to the container, his legs have sorted themselves out and he starts feeling vaguely like he only needs a day or so before he can change back. A day he doesn't have.  
  
Except for the crashing of the waves, the hum of the engine and the squawks of seagulls, it's eerily quiet. No crew up and about (yet), at least not in this part of the ship. John thanks his lucky stars and starts creeping out of the shadow of the wall towards open space. He's barely gone more than a couple of steps when there's a sudden movement up above and about three billion birds race towards him. Shit. Shit, he's a fucking fly and he's going to get eaten. John starts moving his wings almost instinctively and then there's the wind again, but he's fighting it more this time, almost has some control of where he's going and where he's going is away from the birds of hell. (He feels like a character in a Hitchcock movie, only even more terrified because if he were human, he could at least do something like fight or run on two legs. Of course, if he were human he wouldn't even be in this situation.)  
  
John flits about, heedless of where he's going and almost flies straight into a window. He pulls up at the last second. The seagull is not so lucky. At the very least, it must have a concussion. On second thought, that looks like a broken neck.  
  
John settles down on the roof of the, the bridge trying to still his racing heart. He curses as he realises he's farther than ever from Sherlock. There's a thump reverberating from below him, and the door opens. John hears footsteps. Two, he thinks, even if it looks like three thousand men. They pull out their cigarettes and light up, staring into space for a while. Near the end, their lips move and then one half of the three thousand men jerk their finger(s) in the direction of the cargo bay (John thinks it's the right direction; it looks that way). The other half nods and starts to follow, and this is his chance. John takes flight, heading towards one (1,500) of the men like a drunk bug, finally landing — more by accident than design — on his head. (It tastes of gunpowder and chemicals.) He waits, tense, for the man to raise a hand and try to hit him, but nothing of the sort happens. Maybe he hasn't noticed. Maybe he doesn't care. Either way, John doesn't dare move in case he attracts attention.   
  
The men keep walking, weaving through the containers, heading straight for where John thinks Sherlock is still being kept, and this is so not good. John takes off, flying towards the roof of the container opposite and landing about half a meter from the edge. The men pause, one (1500) stands a little to the side and pulls out his gun while the other opens the door to reveal Sherlock (all several hundreds of him) standing there, hands raised just slightly before he moves the left at the speed of a snail towards the door. "John and I would still like to remain a while."  
  
And then he pulls the container door back shut.  
  
If John weren't writhing in absolute agony, he'd be laughing his head off.  
  
As it is, he's trying his damnedest to remain silent as the wings draw back into his back and his eyes start running together like sugar heated in a pan. He's on fire; he's bursting out of his own skin; he's breaking and reshaping and biting his tongue (human tongue) to keep from making even if the tiniest of noises.  
  
There's blood in his mouth. It runs down his chin and pools underneath his face, but John cannot be bothered to wipe it away. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees one of the Russians pulling at the container door with all his might while the other keeps his gun trained at it. Sherlock will not be able to hold it closed indefinitely, not compared to that bear of a man, and John needs to act  _now_.  
  
'Move,' John thinks at himself. 'Move, damn you.'  
  
He's straining, his limbs are fighting him for every inch, but John fights back and finally manages to raise himself to all fours.   
  
"Blyad', zapri dver'!"  
  
The man pulling at the door turns to look back at his companion.  
  
"Cherez dnya dva, u nikh ne budet sil, chtoby prodolzhat'."   
  
John doesn't understand what they're saying, but he can take an educated guess as the big and burly Russian locks the door again and they both move away.  
  
Well, John thinks, that was anti-climatic. He feels darkness pulling at him as the adrenaline leaves his bloodstream. John bites his lip hard, trying to keep himself in the here and now.   
  
Crawling towards the edge takes most of the strength he doesn't have to begin with, and he only just manages not to pitch forward and break his neck falling down. It's a close thing, though. Ideally, he'd rest before trying to jump down, but while he thinks the two Russians have given up for now, they might only be getting reinforcements. Sitting back on his legs is somewhat easy, moving about till he's sitting with his arse on the roof, legs dangling down is somewhat less so, and he still needs to jump down.   
  
John rubs a hand over his eyes (eyes closed, his hand is touching the lids, the  _lids_. He's never been so grateful to have eyelids), then grips the edge and pushes himself over it. The landing's hard and he pitches forward, his knees absorbing some of the shock and  _that_  is going to leave bruises, but he doesn't break anything and his kneecaps still feel intact. He's crawling again, putting one hand before the other, knees scraping along the floor; then he's at the door, still needs to push himself up, does so _somehow_  and strains to pull the handle open.  
  
A second before the door smashes into his face, he remembers to tell Sherlock that it's him. Not that it stops the momentum of Sherlock apparently throwing all his weight at the door and the door banging right into John's forehead.  
  
He blacks out.  
  


* * *

  
The air is sticky, when he comes to, and smells vaguely of rubber. He's lying on a hard surface, with something warm pressed up against his back, breathing into his ear. There's the humming of an engine, the sound of waves breaking on a ship, a certain lack of gunfire, but a certain amount of squawking from seagulls, which has him tensing up before he remembers that—  
  
—that he's on a ship with Sherlock, that he's human sized, that this is the North Sea, not Afghanistan.  
  
"They took no note of our break-out yet," Sherlock murmurs, keeping his voice down to a low volume and avoiding sibilants. (Whispers always attract more attention.) "How are you doing?"  
  
John takes a moment to take stock. His head hurts; he's sore and exhausted, and his knees feel like they're swollen slightly. "I'm okay."   
  
Sherlock squeezes his side.  
  
"I will be," John amends. "Where?"  
  
"Under tarp."  
  
"Wait till night?"  
  
Sherlock nods against his back. By unspoken agreement, they stop talking and listen for the sounds of alarm instead.  
  
John tries to relax, but ultimately fails. Waiting is always the worst part. He's good with action, but the tense muscles, the vigilance and fearful anticipation that is sharpening his reflexes, preparing him for fight or flight, and that no one can keep up for the amount of time that passes before any action can be taken at all, the sudden spikes when an unexpected noise close by shakes him out of the stupor he's falling into again and again — that, all that, he deals badly with. (John has yet to meet a soldier who excels at it. He doesn't think it's possible.)  
  
There's very little to distract him from it, however. He does not want to focus on his pain and exhaustion, and the only other input is the feel of Sherlock pressed against his back, the fine hairs near John's ear moving every time Sherlock breathes out. It's pleasant; it's more than pleasant in fact, but it's also entirely too distracting. John glances at his watch.   
  
Two hours till sunset, and it's best if they leave in the small hours of the night when most of the men on board are asleep. All in all, it adds up to an unbearable long while of waiting. John sighs inaudibly and resigns himself to ten hours in hell.  
  


* * *

  
"I can walk fine," John grumbles, shaking off Sherlock hands as he rises to his feet. A moment later he's stumbling because his leg has fallen asleep. He throws Sherlock a look, daring him to comment.  
  
So, of course he does. "I can see that."  
  
John ignores him and turns towards the tarp, trying to rearrange it to look vaguely like it did before. It doesn't end up looking perfect, but it would do, he decides after a few seconds and looks up to signal he's done.  
  
Sherlock turns and walks off, assuming a confident and easy gait. John copies him. From afar, they might look like they belong — well, John might. Sherlock's coat is a bit too posh, but they can't do anything about that.   
  
For the first time on this case, things actually go off without a hitch. They don't meet anyone, no alarm is raised, they find a lifeboat, they lower it even if John's muscles still feel like rubber, and are about a mile from the ship before John realises something.  
  
"We have no idea where we're going, do we?"  
  


* * *

  
Neither John nor Sherlock are sailors; admittedly, Sherlock has the currents of the Atlantic ocean (near Europe) memorised in case an interestingly murdered body ever washes up on the shore, but knowing where they're drifting is about as helpful as knowing what time it is or that the human body can only survive for so long without water. Drinkable water, that is, which the Atlantic is not. In other words, it makes John worry.  
  
"If you were a bird—"  
  
"No."  
  
"You could fly to—"  
  
" _No._ "  
  
Sherlock frowns at him, and fine,  _fine_  flying to get help is a good idea, John's got to admit. As long as he doesn't end up in France or Spain or Portugal or... as long as he ends up in Britain, finding someone talking to a 'John' shouldn't be a problem. But  _ending up in Britain_  is the crux of the problem, or part of the crux at least.  
  
"I suck at flying," John finally confesses because, really, there's no other reason not to do it.  
  
"You suck at flying," Sherlock repeats slowly as if he of all people needed time to process this really simple statement.   
  
John raises his chin. "I wasn't born with wings. Walking on four or six legs I can figure out, but wings and flying is kind of a step above that." He wonders when he started feeling the need to defend his lack of talent in  _flapping his wings and steering in the right direction_. (Possibly around the time when Sherlock started looking at him as if he were particularly incompetent for not being able to.)  
  
Sherlock presses his lips together and John sighs. John understands him, he does. John is feeling nauseous from hunger half the time, and when he's not feeling nauseous his head is killing him; he's so thirsty he keeps catching himself chewing on his bruised lower lip in an unconscious attempt to - he doesn't know. Drink his own blood? Imitate suckling? Distract himself? He doesn't know. "If it looks like this is our only option by tomorrow, I'll give it a shot."  
  
Sherlock nods and turns his attention away from John, towards the vastness of the surrounding ocean or, more likely, towards the inside of his equally vast mind.  
  
John goes back to contemplating their lack of water and sustenance and thinks about the likelihood of turning the loose threads of his shirt into a functioning fishing line. Unlikely to work, he finally decides, scratching his chin where the hairs of a burgeoning beard are causing an itch. (He keeps eyeing Sherlock's face every once in awhile because he cannot remember ever seeing Sherlock less than perfectly shaved and this is a sight he'd like to remember for the rest of his days, which, admittedly, might not be all that many.)  
  
In between observing Sherlock, worrying about their survival and trying to stave off another headache by sheer strength of will, John falls into a light doze.  
  


* * *

  
Near evening, Sherlock, whose feet have migrated downward and who is now lying in the lifeboat in the same pose in which he usually occupies the sofa (and thus leaving John not much room to stretch out himself, tall bastard), speaks to John after hours of silence. "The exertion from sexual intercourse would leave us even more dehydrated than we already are." He pauses — rather dramatically, John thinks. "On the other hand, I'm bored."  
  
Well. John tries to weigh being stuck in a small space with a bored Sherlock against stupidly having sex. Both would hasten his demise, he finally concludes, but having sex would be more enjoyable.   
  
John puts a hand on Sherlock's ankle, and Sherlock's expression morphs into that stupidly adorable look that is half smugness and half delight and the combination always serves to make John catch his breath because it approaches what passes for genuine happiness with Sherlock and because nearly all the time that it appears on his face it's because John put it there.  
  
Giving into Sherlock's brand of insane stupidity (genius or not, it's stupid; and John, as a doctor, should really know better) is worth it just for that.   
  
John slips his hand underneath the fabric of Sherlock's trousers, thumb rubbing in circles that are absolutely not meant to be soothing, then tightening his grip when Sherlock tries to pull his foot away. "My turn," John says, clearing his throat against the thirst that is demanding his attention.   
  
Sherlock's eyes narrow. "Is it?" He shifts, wriggling closer to John and taking off the shoe on his other foot before pressing it against John's crotch.   
  
John's eyes flutter closed. "Cheater," he rasps as his cock begins to swell, and Sherlock rubs his foot up and down a few times. It's not until Sherlock pulls his other foot away that John notices that his grip has slackened. "Cheater," he repeats.   
  
"I do like winning," Sherlock comments. "Put your hands on the seat. Don't let go."  
  
John's learned how to follow orders in the army. This is not the same thing at all. His hands shoot out to grip the edge of the seat as if they have a mind of their own. "It'll be my turn next time."  
  
There's no reply, but John hadn't expected one. Doesn't really want one right now either as long as Sherlock  _doesn't stop_.  
  
"When was the last time you came from fingering?"   
  
John's eyes snap open. Sherlock is watching him from underneath lowered eyelids, lips curled just slightly upwards. "We - we have no lube," he points out in lieu of actually answering the question because the answer is 'never' but would probably come out as something like 'never, so please, do me now'.   
  
"I'm aware." Which, yeah, of course he is. Oh,  _oh_.  
  
 _Please, do me now._  
  
"Fine. I mean, never, but it's fine. If you want to now, that is."   
  
Sherlock removes his foot and rises into a sitting position. The boat lurches slightly at the change of weight distribution, sinking a little lower at John's end. This registers only peripherally because the lack of friction on John's cock takes precedence.   
  
Leaning forward, Sherlock reaches for the belt again. It's on the tip of John's tongue to tell him not to take so bloody long again, only that would probably encourage him to do exactly that.  
  
Sherlock doesn't remove the belt. In fact, he's rather efficiently freeing John from his trousers and underwear (John helpfully lifts his hips) and shoes and socks, throwing them over his shoulder into the back of the lifeboat.   
  
Sherlock raises his arm and puts his fingers against John's lips, which are still sore from the treatment they've received in the last twenty-four hours. He's pressing on them a little harder than strictly necessary, but it's a good kind of hurt. John opens his mouth, taking them in. Sherlock's fingers are salty (and John's mouth is really too dry to provide much in the way of spit), but John ignores this in favour of tongueing at them, sucking, nibbling. He's never given anyone a blowjob before, but he's been on the receiving end of quite a few, not least of all the one Sherlock gave him back on the cargo ship. The memory of it has him hardening more and he barely keeps himself from moaning around Sherlock's fingers.  
  
"That should be enough," Sherlock says, but he doesn't make any attempt to withdraw. John meets his gaze, holds it, and leans forward to take his fingers in farther. Sherlock's mouth drops open slightly and his face begins to develop red blotches here and there. It shouldn't be attractive, but damn, it is.   
  
John lets his fingers slip out of his mouth and asks, "still glad that you won?"  
  
It's only the second time ever that he's seen Sherlock speechless. It doesn't last long.  
  
"Close your eyes."  
  
John grins and obeys before moving about to give Sherlock easier access. It's going to be hard on his back to stay like this (feet to the left and right of where Sherlock is sitting, leaning backwards, hands gripping the seat), but he cares very little about that right now.  
  
The boat never really stopped rocking, but now that John's focus shifts from the sight of Sherlock's face to what he can perceive with his other senses, the up and down movement has his head slowly starting to spin. He only gets a moment of forewarning (a sudden cessation of cool wind blowing about his privates) before Sherlock's left hand lands on one inner thigh, then the other, spreading his legs farther, increasing both the discomfort and the exposure to the elements (and to Sherlock's gaze).   
  
Sherlock's fingers are almost dry by the time he begins to circle John's hole with them, the wind — humid as it is — working like a blow-dryer. John swallows, suddenly nervous, as Sherlock starts to push one of them into him.   
  
"Sherlock."  
  
There's a pause while Sherlock's probably trying to deduce John's reason for saying his name. John's about to open his mouth to explain when Sherlock asks, "Stop altogether or a different kind of input to focus on?"  
  
John really thinks about it, thinks about the fact that this is going to hurt, that the position he's in is also making him hurt. Thinks about the other night and Sherlock taking him just to the edge of  _too much_  and then distracting him. No, not distracting, adding and  _changing_.  
  
"The second. Different." He licks his lips, little good that it does.  
  
"If I lean any farther forward, we'll upset the boat," Sherlock says at about the same time that a hand lands on John's dick. It takes John a moment to figure out that Sherlock has just explained why he's not going to give John a blowjob, and then it takes him another moment to notice that Sherlock felt the  _need_  to explain that. In his defense, processing language is just a little difficult with Sherlock moving his fingers over his dick as if he were specifically aiming to drive all thought from John's head.  
  
That's likely exactly what Sherlock is going for.  
  
"Good?"  
  
"Yes," John wheezes. (It doesn't escape his notice that they've been having this whole conversation while Sherlock's finger was still partially up John's hole and he thinks that maybe he should have felt slightly embarrassed, only he didn't. It's like the past year of living with Sherlock has inundated him against weirdness and embarrassment.)  
  
Sherlock twists his finger inside John, pushing it in a little further.  
  
"Oh god," John shouts, clenching around the intrusive digit. A second later, Sherlock is pulling it out.  
  
John blinks his eyes open to look at him. He doesn't quite know what to say and probably won't be able to speak around the pulse in his throat anyway. It didn't feel good; it wasn't exactly painful to the point of making John howl, but he didn't like it, not one little bit and he doesn't think he wants to be doing this again, ever.  
  
Sherlock's face is unreadable at first or maybe slightly concerned. It makes John's gut clench a little and he can't figure out if it's because Sherlock is concerned about him or because Sherlock felt the need to be concerned in the first place. "I," he begins, halts, fails to make up his mind about what he wants to say, and falls into an embarrassed silence.  
  
Sherlock exhales deeply and shakes his head at John. "Stop that."  
  
He looks down on John's slackening cock, looks up again and raises an eyebrow, asking John what he wants to do. Stop or go? (John notes that the fingering is off the table if Sherlock's right hand is anything to go by. He's pressing it against his own leg as if to say, 'this won't move from here').  
  
Stop or go?  
  
Go, John decides, and nods.  
  
If a handjob could ever be described as tender, this one would qualify. Sherlock's hands are careful on his flesh, stroking his balls, pulling lightly here or there. He's playing John like an instrument, starting softly, before going faster and faster, ending in a crescendo that has John trembling by the time he spills into Sherlock's cupped hand.   
  
He almost goes to sleep, but he's never left anyone unsatisfied and he's not about to start now. While John's contemplating the state of Sherlock's trousers, specifically the bulge between his legs, a sudden beam of light blinds him momentarily, and he looks up to see—  
  
"A ship. Sherlock, there's a ship!" A white one (definitely not the cargo ship). John scrambles to his feet, almost upsetting the boat in his haste and starts waving his arms.   
  
The ship sounds its foghorn.   
  
"Sherlock," John crows. "We're getting rescued!"  
  
Sherlock throws him an offended look, the one that says, 'do you take me for an idiot; of course, I've noticed.' "Maybe," he grumbles, "you should put your trousers on then."  
  
"If you can go to Buckingham Palace in your birthday suit, I can be rescued half-naked," John immediately returns, but he can't manage to keep a straight face and ends up grinning at Sherlock.  
  
Sherlock grins back.  
  


* * *

  
Sherlock's is the only bathroom in 221b Baker Street that has a shower, which John had found inconvenient at first, then stopped caring about, and is now glad for. It gives him an excuse to hover near Sherlock's bed until Sherlock looks up from his laptop and tilts his head in silent invitation. John grabs two bottles of water from where he'd put them earlier (by the door) and climbs into Sherlock's bed, dressed in nothing more than a pair of off-red boxers and a shirt. He holds out one of the bottles towards Sherlock, wriggling it in front of his face until Sherlock snatches it out of his hand in exasperation.  
  
"Drink," John orders when Sherlock makes a move to put it on the bedside table. He opens his own bottle, takes a swig, and raises his eyebrow expectantly.  
  
Sherlock glares at him, but does unscrew the top and put the bottle to his lips. He drinks about a third before lowering it slowly and in a way that is entirely too suggestive of what else he could be putting his lips on and sucking.  
  
Fuck it, John thinks, shoves the laptop out of Sherlock's hands and onto the bedside table, and pounces on him.  
  


* * *

  
John takes another shower and fetches more water bottles from the kitchen. He clambers onto Sherlock's bed, not waiting for an invitation this time, and settles down next to him. Sherlock's attention remains on the screen for the most part, but he moves his arm to better accommodate John.  
  
John's a little tired, a lot tired actually, and his knees are still giving him some trouble (even more now after a round of exertion), so he mostly drifts in and out of wakefulness for the next several hours while Sherlock checks on his website, sighing at the lack of anything interesting, and keeping up with his newsfeed (also sighing at the lack of anything interesting). At one point, John wakes from a light doze to find him looking at a page of, "Myths of Afghanistan?"   
  
John frowns, staring at the website.   
  
Sherlock tenses almost imperceptibly before clearly forcing himself to relax. "The Baskerville experiments found their way into the public conscious as myths."   
  
Something tight settles over John's torso, squeezing. He licks his suddenly dry lips reflexively before giving it up as a lost cause. "You don't believe that there's a scientific explanation."   
  
Sherlock clenches his jaw, but remains silent. John is getting the sneaking suspicion that it's because he thinks that after eliminating the impossible, the only remaining answer — however really, truly, incredibly fucking  _improbable_  — is 'no, I don't' and that Sherlock simply doesn't want to entertain the notion. That he's deliberately closing his eyes against the obvious conclusion because it would wreck havoc with his worldview.  
  
Hell, it wrecks havoc with  _John's_  worldview.  
  
"I mean," John says a little desperately, "glowing bunnies, Sherlock. There's a lot of things that—"  
  
"John," Sherlock snaps. "You've shrunk to the size of a fly. Before that you were a guinea pig. You-" he interrupts himself, running a hand through his hair. John has never seen Sherlock this agitated before. "It cannot be science."  
  
Well, that...that is what John should have been expecting all along. Had been expecting, in a way. John tries to wrap his head around it. It's more difficult than he thought because he still feels like it cannot be. He thinks he needs to hear Sherlock actually say it. "So, I'm under a curse?" And he doesn't know if it's really because he won't believe it otherwise (and when has Sherlock's word become the word of god?) or if he just wants someone to share the misery of experiencing a paradigm shift of this magnitude.  
  
"I," Sherlock finally replies, "I wouldn't call it a...curse." He hesitates over the last word, before it spills from his lips in a rush as if by saying it really quickly he could hide that he'd used it at all.  
  
"But it's magic."   
  
Sherlock look like he's trying to skin John with his eyes. "Yes, John. Against my better judgment and every law of physics, it's _magic_." He spits the word out, then buries his face in his hands, and all but groans.  
  
"Right," John says slowly, around whatever obstruction is blocking his airways. "'Right." He turns his head away and stares at the ceiling for a while.  
  
"I think I found the relevant myth," Sherlock says after a while, "but there's no information about how to reverse it — if you want that."  
  
John knows what that means, knows it even as the smell of gun oil and sweat and desert wind rises up in his memory. Their best bet is and always has been Afghanistan.   
  
John thinks, and considers, and mulls it over in his mind, and he just doesn't know what to do, what to reply. He doesn't know if he wants this fixed so much that he wants to go back into the war zone, more importantly he doesn't know if he wants it so much that he'll drag Sherlock along, who's used to danger, yes, but not like Afghanistan. Never like Afghanistan.   
  
Fuck, he's not even sure anymore if he really wants to be fixed at all. Few civilians use 'copy that' and John has studiously been avoiding watching war movies (though he hasn't actually felt the need to watch one). It's as contained as it can be, and it's even sometimes useful, he has to admit.  
  
It's just, it's — John has been cursed or, god, spelled or whatever it is and, and  _magic_.  
  
"Of course, we can go and just see what we can find out about it."  
  
John doesn't need to look at Sherlock to see the glint of hope and anticipation in his eyes, and he kind of wants to throttle him for just rolling with this particular punch. Or maybe for being Sherlock and being curious and wanting to know anything that is _not boring_  even if it might kill him. "Sherlock," he says, finally twisting his head to glare at him.  
  
"What? No, let me guess what you will say." Sherlock's chin is raised and he's staring at John coldly.  _"It will be dangerous."_  
  
He's stressing the words, and they echo inside John's mind, increasing in volume until John flinches away from them.   
  
Of course, John has no stones to throw; and  _Sherlock_  has never kept John out of whatever dangerous adventure he'd decided to plunge headlong into, has given John the choice how and where and for whom to risk his life. And John is an idiot.  
  
"I guess," he says, " it's time to brush up on my Pashto, then."  
  


* * *

  
  
"I have been wondering," Sherlock says in a deceptively casual tone, which has John putting down the teacup he's holding and preparing for the worst, "if changing into another person, while not providing you with their skills, might give you their … sensitivities." He flicks some imaginary hair off the cuff of his shirt. The aubergine coloured one. Sherlock is dressed but for his socks and shoes, which John finds curious but isn't going to question.  
  
"Like their allergies?" John asks.  
  
"Or their erogenous zones."  
  
Ah, John thinks and swallows. Sherlock is clearly trying to break John before the day has even started. He picks up his cup again and takes another sip. "I clearly remember there being a rule about no experiments before breakfast. I'm sure of it." He remembers it well because it was the consequence of that incident two weeks ago where John stumbled out of bed and into the living room to suddenly find himself turned into Sherlock again. He hadn't even seen Sherlock yet that morning, but he  _had_  seen him before he'd gone to sleep. Sherlock then proceeded to question him about  _who he'd been dreaming about and if it could have been Sherlock_.The answer was that he didn't remember, which — in Sherlock's eyes — of course meant they had to repeat the experiment, which in turn lead to the creation of another rule. (Sherlock caught him later that week after a nap.)  
  
"You've almost finished your breakfast."   
  
And that is true.   
  
John thinks about Sherlock.  
  
Then he thinks about Sherlock's cock.  
  
And then he thinks about standing in the bathroom and feeling the fabric of Sherlock's pyjama bottoms on his skin, and wolves down the last bit of bread.   
  
"Appetising."  
  
John drains his teacup and says, "Oh, shut up."

 

* * *

  
Sherlock's bedroom is quickly becoming John's favourite place in 221b. Despite the sterility and tidiness of the space which is so at odds with Sherlock's brilliant vibrancy and the rest of the flat (though perfectly in tune with his mind, John thinks), it simply screams 'Sherlock' at him. Perhaps it's the lingering scent of, well, Sherlock or maybe it's only in John's mind. John doesn't care; being here in this room, being allowed (no, more than allowed, requested, invited, wanted) to fall onto Sherlock's bed, lie there and watch as Sherlock strides to the foot of the bed and stands there to watch John in return — it makes him feel as if he's opened the door to Sherlock's head a little bit wider, as if Sherlock has permitted him to come in a little bit farther, beckoned him into Sherlock's inner sanctum.  
  
And Sherlock is looking at him as if he knows what John is thinking and is telling him, _yes; yes, indeed, and you're welcome to stay for as long as you like._  
  
Sherlock kneels on the bed, drops to all fours, hands and knees on either side of John's leg, and crawls forward in a motion so smooth it's reminiscent of a panther stalking its prey. ( _John's_  never been that graceful, even as a cat.) His hands grab John's wrist, pressing them down on the mattress. A rush of cold prickles down John's spine, and he goes still, staring unblinking at Sherlock's face, waiting for Sherlock to say it. Sherlock bends down, mouth hovering over John's ear. "Copy that."  
  
The pain from the incipient transformation feels familiar, but it's so very different this time. This time Sherlock's hands and knees and body are holding him immobile. Sherlock's sitting on him, John notes, wonders when that happened and how he could have missed that because now he cannot take note of anything but Sherlock's weight on him, the anchor it provides as John writhes against the pain. He'll have bruises from this, bruises on his wrist, and he doesn't care, welcomes them in fact because they mean that Sherlock is here with him, will be with him until the bruises fade (and then beyond).   
  
"Look at us," Sherlock breathes, hands releasing his wrists, and sliding up to tangle their fingers. John tilts his head slowly, as if in a dream, to see two perfectly matched hands pressed palm to palm.   
  
"Would love to," John replies.  
  
"Of course."  
  
Sherlock pulls him up then, into a sitting position, sliding down John's legs, past his feet and towards the edge of the bed. It's a little uncomfortable because he doesn't let go of John's hands and John has to scramble awkwardly to his knees to follow. (Almost kicks Sherlock because Sherlock, both Sherlock and John-as-Sherlock, has legs that are way too long.)  
  
Then they're off the bed, and Sherlock is tugging him towards the bathroom, lets go with one hand to open the door, pushes John in before following, manoeuvering John's body until they're standing right in front of the mirror: John in front, while Sherlock is plastered to his back — this time. (Oh,  _this time_ ; and last time must have been - John shudders, toes curling a little at the thought, good thought — it must have been Sherlock testing the waters.)  
  
"Why a bee?"  
  
The Sherlock in the mirror smirks. "I like bees." He plants a kiss on John's (Sherlock's) neck.   
  
"This is incredibly narcissistic, you realise."  
  
"It definitely will be," Sherlock growls against his skin, before licking and nipping his way up to just below John's ear, which — turns out to be incredibly, fuck,  _sensitive_. John grips Sherlock's hair, pulling him away and crushing their mouths together, and Sherlock moans. He tightens his grip, twisting Sherlock's head to the side and licking the same spot that John had just identified as one of Sherlock's erogenous zones.  
  
The reaction is really very gratifying. Sherlock bucks against him, almost crushing John against the washing basin.   
  
"Where else?"  
  
Sherlock twists around him and fumbles with the buttons of John's (his) shirt while John keeps mouthing at that spot. "Lots of places." He slides the shirt off John's (Sherlock's) shoulders and past his arms and wrists. "Here, for instance." Sherlock falls to his knees and lightly scrapes his teeth along the tender skin of John's (Sherlock's) side, making John flinch back from the sensation. It's good, but not. A little like someone just put a knife to his throat which is exciting, but not  _good_. John wonders if Sherlock would consider putting a knife to John's throat one of these days, could jerk him off while John had to remain still, so still for fear of the knife cutting into his skin. He shudders, making Sherlock raise an eyebrow. John shakes his head and reaches down to tug on the shirt Sherlock is still wearing. He doesn't bother with any buttons but the first and the ones on the cuffs, just pulls the shirt up and over Sherlock's head. It makes Sherlock's hair look even more tousled than it already does.   
  
John's about to pull Sherlock to his feet and apply his newfound knowledge when Sherlock reaches up to unzip the trousers John's wearing (no belt, he notes). He tugs and they slide past John's (Sherlock's) hips to pool at his bare feet. The lack of shoes and socks make the trousers easier to step out of and have the added benefit that he doesn't need to balance on one leg while removing them. (John doesn't particularly mind wearing socks while having sex because he's not fussy. He thinks Sherlock might be.)  
  
When Sherlock leans forward to lick at the tip of his (Sherlock's; fuck,  _Sherlock's_  cock), John's hands shoot out to grip the basin because otherwise he's just going to fall down. He knows it; his knees are refusing to remain steady and his balance is slightly off anyway.  
  
"I've never given myself a blowjob before," Sherlock says, "or received one for that matter, but extrapolating from what I like in terms of touching, this should be easy enough to figure out." (And how hot — and how unfair — is that, that Sherlock is so fucking perfect at something he's never done before?) Sherlock puts his left hand on John's (Sherlock's) hip and wraps his right hand around the base of John's (Sherlock's) cock, and maybe it's the newness of this thing between them, but John immediately flashes back to the last time Sherlock's done this and moans.  
  
Sherlock tugs a little at the balls, focusing John's mind back on him. "Now pay attention. I expect you to memorise what arouses this body."  
  
Oh, Jesus fuck. John's trying to figure out how to reply to that; should he reply to that even? He doesn't know. What do you say? He doesn't know that either. What he does know is that Sherlock's tongue is doing terribly beautiful obscene things to his (Sherlock's) dick and John doesn't know how he's supposed to remember, to memorise, because his brain is barely functioning as it is. Sherlock keeps licking him, alternating with taking John into his mouth and sucking. He's bringing John to the edge, does it several times, but always, always pulls back at the last second and John could  _howl_ ; he could cry and scream and beg for mercy and if he were any stronger, he'd break the basin that he's clutching like an anchor in a storm.  
  
Sherlock pulls back suddenly, and entirely, releasing the cock in his mouth and the balls in his hand, and stands up. John looks at him, and he must be wearing the most bewildered and most agonised expression. It makes Sherlock's lip curl upwards, makes him lean forward and say, "your turn."   
  
John doesn't understand at first; there are words coming out of Sherlock's mouth, but they don't make sense because how can he, how can Sherlock expect him to—  
  
—undress Sherlock, slide his trousers and pants down, and  
—drop to his knees before him, cheek pressed against Sherlock's inner thigh and nosing into the dark curls surrounding his cock and  
—reach for his hip and cup his balls with the other hand and  
—lick the tip of Sherlock's cock like Sherlock licked his and  
—plant a kiss upon it like greeting a Lady or a man of the church, a bishop maybe,  _worshipful_ , in adoration, perhaps like a man swearing fealty to his liege.  
  
John pulls back and looks up at Sherlock, who shudders above him, which is encouragement enough to lean forward again, this time opening his mouth to take Sherlock in. (The taste is strange, the feel of it, too, big and hot and heavy; John's never done this before but it's not weird, this intimacy, it's right, so utterly right because it's Sherlock.)  
  
He tries to remember what Sherlock did, tries to emulate. His own (Sherlock's) cock is hard and leaking between his legs, and the grip he has on Sherlock's hip will leave bruises (and that is  _right_ , too).   
  
John gets lost in the moment, lost in the taste and smell and feel of Sherlock, lost not in his own head but in Sherlock's body, and is completely unwilling to try and find his way back.   
  
There are hands buried in his curls, pulling his head back, insistently. (It hurts and he likes that at the same time that he resents it for parting him from Sherlock's cock.)  
  
"Up," Sherlock orders. "Stand up."  
  
John groans and stumbles to his feet, almost staggering into Sherlock. One of Sherlock's hands keeps gripping his hair, the other grasps his shoulder, pushing and pulling until John is looking into the mirror again, hands gripping the washing basin again, only now he's bent forward a bit, and Sherlock is behind him. Sherlock's left hand is pulling John's (Sherlock's) head back to an almost (definitely) uncomfortable angle, but his right is releasing John's shoulder, settling tight around John's (Sherlock's) cock, moving up and down.  
  
"Watch," Sherlock orders. John's eyes meet his in the mirror before his vision broadens and he takes in Sherlock behind him (grinding himself against John's arse, slipping between his cheeks, but never inside) and John-who-looks-like-Sherlock in front, mouth open, face flushed, looking utterly, utterly debauched and John's got used to the idea of looking like other people, but right now he's looking at an image (life porn) of Sherlock (hand gripping John's (Sherlock's hair), mouth stretched into a grin) fucking  _Sherlock_  (eyes blown wide, lips red with a drop of precome on his chin). Two Sherlocks. Fucking.  
  
 _John comes._  
  
He comes with Sherlock's name on his lips, and in his mouth, and in his throat; a litany of Sherlock, Sherlock,  _Sherlock_ , spilling spilling spilling.  
  
Comes, and hot on his heels, feels Sherlock ejaculate behind him, on him, all over him. (It drips down his side; John's never felt anything so perfect.)  
  
His knees buckle, and he slides down to the floor, pulling Sherlock down with him (or maybe Sherlock's knees buckle, too; it's his body; if John's knees are weak, it stands to reason that Sherlock's are as well, he thinks).   
  
The floor is hard, but John doesn't care; the tiles are cold, and John doesn't care about that either because Sherlock's down here with him, holding him, cheek resting on John's shoulder.  
  
"Yours," John sighs, feeling mushy, as if he were floating.  
  
Sherlock makes a noise of inquiry.  
  
"I prefer your company," John clarifies, because having sex apparently turns him into a romantic.  
  
Sherlock huffs, and plants a kiss on his neck. "So do I."  
  
John's ( _Sherlock's_ ) elbow shoots out backward to hit some part of Sherlock's body, making Sherlock grunt, then laugh.  
  
"Wanker." John pauses. Fuck. "Don't say it. It's not wanking if you do it to someone else. It's not."  
  
Sherlock never stops laughing.  
  


* * *

  
There's something off about the way Sherlock handles his interactions with the Pashtun. Something not wrong, something too right in fact, and John doesn't think it's simply Sherlock having researched the customs perfectly.  
  
"You've been here before," John states, and it's  _not_  a question. Sherlock doesn't treat it as such either and refuses to answer. "You have." And maybe John sounds a little accusing there.  
  
He considers when Sherlock could have possibly found the time to travel to bloody Afghanistan and why he would, in fact, travel to bloody Afghanistan in the first place, and comes up with the answers rather too quickly.  
  
"When you told me that you went to Israel, right after that business with Irene Adler — oh  _Jesus._ " In the light of Irene Adler's quite feasible survival, Sherlock's lack of a reaction when John told him about the witness protection program took on an entirely different meaning. "You helped her escape."  
  
Sherlock doesn't acknowledge John's deduction, doesn't need to. It's there in the quirk of his mouth and the hint of pride in his eye, and Sherlock doesn't really need John to protect him at all. Not like this, not from that.   
  
They're both happier plunging into danger head-on — and together.  
  


* * *

  
Finding a witch in Afghanistan is harder than finding good coffee in a vending machine, and the only reason that John and Sherlock are even getting close is because John can, actually, also turn into a woman. His lack of native speaker competence however is a rather big hindrance.  
  
"American?" she asks him before John has managed to speak more than three words.  
  
"British," he replies because denial would be utterly futile and almost certainly counter-productive.  
  
"Hmm."  
  
John clears his throat. "Look, I'm sorry that I—" —copied your sisters body and used it to sneak into your house to talk to you. That wouldn't go over well, he thinks, even though it's the proverbial elephant in the room. "I'm sorry," he tries again. "I'm here because—"  
  
"You crossed underneath a rainbow, and now you want to know how to get rid of your gift." She moves away from him, towards the table where she had been cutting vegetables before John found a way to be invited in. Sits down and reaches for the knife, starts cutting again with precise motions and utter surety.  
  
"The trigger phrase is—" not as bothersome and ubiquitous now.   
  
"Inconvenient? Too obvious?"  
  
John nods, but feels that he shouldn't. The burka is making it harder to read her face, but the woman (the witch) seems contemptuous — of him, he thinks.  
  
"It would be; it always must reflect the shape of the magic." The precise motions never stop or turn more violent, but they still somehow manage to look aggressive and disapproving. "Go and find another. Walk backwards, and think of your name. Now get out; get out and stop fooling around with my sister's body!"  
  
John inhales, opens his mouth to — thank her or apologize again or both.  
  
"Out."  
  
He leaves without saying another word.  
  


* * *

  
"I have been wondering," Sherlock says one night while they're pressed against each other in a tent that is too tiny by half for Sherlock's long limbs. He's pulled his legs up, making the most of the few inches that the position (Sherlock in front, John spooning him) provides. "The transformations are obviously painful. On a scale from one—"  
  
"Eleven," John replies. "Definitely eleven."  
  
Sherlock pauses to think this over. "I see."  
  
"I mean, it actually depends on what I change into. Another person, okay. Painful, but okay. An animal? Painful, and getting more horrible the smaller it is."  
  
"Hmm. That makes sense especially in the light of the fact that your transformations always take the same amount of time."  
  
Well, that is news to John. "Are you sure? Because some seem longer, and the one in the bathroom where I changed into myself didn't seem to take any time at all."  
  
"I am sure, yes. Well." Sherlock hesitates. When he continues, he sounds a little chagrined. "I couldn't really time the last one, but the others all lasted equally long. The pain during the animal transformations must be greater both because you're turning into something quite different and with less mass — and I'd really like to know where that is going; changing into energy perhaps? — and because you're doing it in the same amount of time that it takes you to change into a human."  
  
"Energy."  
  
"E = mc2. Einstein's theory of—"  
  
"I know what it is, Sherlock," John snaps, before nipping at Sherlock's ear. Sherlock twitches, and rubs against John and -- and it is way too cold to have sex. "I was surprised you knew given that you completely forgot about heliocentrism."  
  
Sherlock stiffens. "I didn't  _forget_. I merely deleted it from my memory because it bears no relevance to day-to-day life."  
  
"And Einstein does?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
John wonders if he should ask, then decides that no, he's sure Sherlock has a brilliant reason for this, but he's not really all that interested in it. Given that the last time he'd asked something like that, Sherlock had treated him to a thirty-minute monologue about the importance of the modern novel to the collective unconscious and John hadn't even pretended to listen for the last ten of those, which had Sherlock scowling at him and throwing himself on the sofa with a huff, well. Better not to have a repeat of that.   
  
Some days, John thinks that Sherlock decides what is important and what isn't according to whether or not he finds it interesting or entertaining. Aside from obviously important facts, like the distance that high-velocity blood splatters travel, that is. And--  
  
John stops mid-thought, opens his mouth. It's on the tip of his tongue to ask what Sherlock is doing, but it's actually quite obvious what he's doing. "Stop moving."  
  
"Friction creates heat."  
  
"If you don't stop it with the physics, I may have to —  _Jesus Christ._ "   
  
Sherlock doesn't reply because he's pulled up John's hand to his mouth and is busy sucking on his fingers while rubbing against John and oh, god.  
  
"I— you're not allowed to copy me."   
  
Sherlock hums and releases his fingers with a wet plop. "Something tells me you don't really mind."  
  
"Sherlock," John grits out. "Remember that I know all your erogenous zones and I can reach a fair few of them from here."  
  
"Firstly, you don't. Secondly, I'm hoping that you'll become a little more engaged in this activity, so go ahead."  
  
In hindsight, that really hadn't been much of a threat at all. John caves and licks at Sherlock's neck before freeing his hand from Sherlock's grip and working it into Sherlock's pants. Sherlock's hips jack forward.  
  
"So about this bet."  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"Wanna give me a chance to prove my own skill? The morning is still far away."  
  
Sherlock's voice, John notes with a certain amount of smugness, is unsteady when he replies with a simple  _yes_.  
  


* * *

  
For all that John and Sherlock are mostly trying to fly under the radar, they keep running into people rather a lot of the time, and not just because they need to restock supplies. It's—, they're not trying to avoid the Pashtun because going to any country and setting out to avoid interacting with the actual people of that country strikes John as stupid? Arrogant? He doesn't know.   
  
They  _are_  trying to avoid interacting with anyone from the West, however, because neither John nor Sherlock wants to give Mycroft the chance to track their movements. (John feels more than a little nervous at the thought of Mycroft of all people knowing what he can do. He has an inkling that his life would no longer be his own once the man with the  _minor role in government_  learns of his ability, and Mycroft would be able to see all the ways in which he could use John's talents.)  
  
As such, John and Sherlock have more than a fair share of conversations with people from various backgrounds and cultures and different beliefs in terms of myths and superstitions.  
  
Sherlock is in research heaven.  
  
John is growing progressively more horrified at all the things that  _could possibly be true, now that he knows that magic is real._  
  
And that's not even taking into account all the myths from all over the world, starting with simple things like gold pots at the end of rainbows and very definitely not ending with Herne the Hunter and being turned into a hunting dog for the rest of your life, and — and that is actually something he can see happening to some poor sod with an extremely rare name.  
  
Dear god, he will never look at fairy tales the same way again.  
  
"Sherlock."  
  
Sherlock ignores him in favour of listening intently to a description of the properties of  _mehergheeah_ , which seems to be a love plant. As in, a plant that forces whoever ingests it to return the love of the person who has given it to them.  
  
" _Sherlock._ "  
  
Sherlock holds up his index finger in the universal gesture for 'one moment'. John tries to be patient. Hell, he tries to look like he's enjoying himself because he doesn't want to insult the people kindly sharing their meal with them. He scribbles down a few words in his notebook. They're pretending to be writing a book on legends of Afghanistan, and while John knows that Sherlock has almost perfect recall, everyone else doesn't. So he's forced to write down all kinds of things he'd rather actually not think about.  
  
"And it only grows on the Siaposh hill?"  
  
"Only there, yes."  
  
John takes another note.   
  
"I wonder what makes that hill so different."  
  
The man looks at Sherlock, confused.  
  
"I mean, why are some places magical and others not? What  _makes_  them so?"  
  
The answer seems to be  _God_. It has Sherlock gritting his teeth in frustration because that is a non-answer to him. John puts a hand on his arm to remind him not to snap at the nice people playing hosts to them.   
  
"Thank you," John says, closing his notebook. He smiles at their hosts, while increasing the pressure on Sherlock's arm.  
  
"Yes. I mean, thank you," Sherlock echoes.   
  
"Oh, I know a lot more legends," the man says, and John winces inwardly because, because, well. Herne the Hunter, and love potions, and creatures of the night. He does open his notebook again, though, and hopes these legends won't cause him more nightmares.   
  
The man smiles widely at him. "Have you ever heard then of the  _Serpent of Vaihund_?"   
  


* * *

  
They keep travelling the country, chasing the proverbial rainbow, and every day John is getting more and more convinced that he actually  _doesn't_  want to be fixed, doesn't want to be cured. It's not that he doesn't see the danger. (Mycroft, Baskerville.) It's just — it  _is_  useful. They would not have survived their trip on the Russian ship otherwise; he's certain of that.   
  
He's finally ready to admit as much to Sherlock when the weather suddenly decides to cooperate, and they're standing there in the sunlight, underneath the light drizzle, looking at the rainbow.   
  
"I don't want to," John blurts, feeling stupid because they've wasted a lot of time on this.  
  
"I know," Sherlock replies before,  _fucking shit, taking off running._  
  
John doesn't blink, he doesn't, but from one moment to the next the rainbow's moved from in front of Sherlock to behind him, and Sherlock's shouting something (in German, John thinks) and falling to the ground and by the end John is looking at an exact replica of himself.   
  
John walks forward and reaches down to pull Sherlock (himself) up. Sherlock sways, holding himself as if he's hurting all over (which he likely is).   
  
"Guess I can return the favour now," John says, and leaves it up to Sherlock to decide if he means 'by turning  _you_  into a guinea pig' or 'by turning you into me and fucking you till you come so hard you forget who you are'.   
  


* * *

  
He does the latter, but is tempted to try the former more than once.  
  


* * *

  
Then Moriarty walks away a free man from a trial that should have put him behind bars for good, and Sherlock and John need to think of something fast because they care about Mrs Hudson and they care about Lestrade and John can take care of himself.  
  


* * *

  
"This is my note," John says, staring down from the rooftop at the buzzling street. On the other side of it stands Lestrade, mobile phone pressed to his ear. It's too far to see, but John can imagine the look of dawning realisation on his face as he breathes, "Sherlock."  
  
"Look at me. Keep your eyes on me." Don't look down to where Sherlock is hiding, blood running down his face from a superficial wound.  
  
Lestrade looks, and John throws the phone away and steps onto the ledge. Somewhere down on the street a woman, Molly, screams and one of Sherlock's homeless network is running into Lestrade, making sure he doesn't actually see John (Sherlock) hit the street. John doesn't because he's throwing himself backward, raising his left hand to his eyes. The mouse he's been holding looks at him, terrified, and John whispers, "Copy that." before letting it drop the last few inches to the ground.  
  
The transformation never gets any easier. John breathes through the last of the shudders, waiting for them to subside. In a little while, he will get up and scuttle inside. He will change back; he will turn up at St. Bart's, he will be informed of what Sherlock has (supposedly) done, and he will be (ostensibly) devastated.  
  
And then he and Sherlock will leave England to raze Moriarty's network to the ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Camille Kaze illustrated the mirror scene, and it is awesome. [Look! Look!](http://camillekaze.tumblr.com/post/43712836776/fanart-inspired-by-this-fic-by-maybemalapert-and-i) :DDDDDDDDDDDD


End file.
